SpilyayTymoo
Warm Springs, Oregon
November 23, 1993 PAGE 3
Alcohol frequent companion in destruction of self, others
by Howard Weaver
Anchorage Dally News Managing Editor
Something is stalklne the villaee poopIc. Across
the state, the Eskimos, Indians and Aleuts of Bush
Alaska are dying in astonishing numbers. By
suicide, accident and other untimely, violent
means, death is stealing the heart of a generation
and painting the survivors with despair.
A growing sense of helplessness simmers in
alcohol throughout the Bush. Among a growing
percentage of Alaska Natives, life has become
equal parts violence, disintegration and despair.
4 ! J I 1 J J J I 1 . . .
nn epiaemic 01 suiciue, muracr ana 5t'ii-a cm ruc
tion threatens to overwhelm cultures that have for
centuries survived and prospered in the harshest
environments on earth.
Says 79-year-old Indian elder Walter Charley:
"We're like a drowning man."
The village of Alakanuk lived on the razors
edge: a town of 550 with eight suicides, dozens of
attempts, two murders and four drownings in 16
months. This was Eskimo Armageddon.
But while Alakanuk s experience has been the
worst, it is by no means an isolated example. The
pace of suicide, self-destruction and abuse is
accelerating all over Alaska. There are echoes
everywhere:
At Wainwright, where four young people
died in September 1986 after drinking methanol
from a barrel that washed up on the beach. The
dead were aged 16, 17, 21 and 33.
In Qumhagak, where 11 teen-agers were
hospitalized and one died in April 1987 from
drinking copier fluid stolen from the village
school. Officials reported that a 19-year-old "never
woke up" from the party.
In Hooper Bay, where a 16-year-old boy lulled
himself playing Russian roulette last July. In the
aftermath, his girlfriend shot herself through the
mouth and was permanently damaged and two
other young women shot themselves and survived.
And in grief, like that of drunken parents
from Birch Creek who left a drinking session in
Fort Yukon with their two-year-old son in the boat
and discovered only after getting home that the
baby had been abandoned on a sand bar or lost
overboard.
Fearsome numbers
Numbers scarcely begin to sketch the bounds of
misery, but the numbers themselves are awful,
where 10 young white men would kill themselves,
100 young Natives will. There is roughly a one-in-10
chance that a 15-year-old Native boy will kill
himself or make a serious attempt to do so before
he is 25.
Sloppy record-keeping and a sense of shame
lead to vast under recording of Native suicides;
for years, they combined to mask the terrible
scope of the problem. When state officials discov
ered the mistakes and began to double-check,
reported numbers of Native suicide increased by
as much as 73 percent for a single year, and the
full dimension of the tragedy began to emerge.
Among men ages 20 to 24, the national suicide
rate is 25.6 per 100,000. The best calculations
available show that among white men in Alaska it
is 44 per 100,000. For Native men in the age group
it is 257 per 100,000.
"Our culture has been destroyed. We're
fighting for our lives."
Doug Modig of RuralCap
Native women also kill themselves much more
often than non-Natives. Even more tragically, they
poison their unborn children. The rate of "fetal
alcohol syndrome" a range of birth defects
caused by the mother's drinking is two-and-a-half
times the national average and more than
twice the rate among other Indian populations.
More than four of every thousand Native
babies are born with a life sentence: retardation,
damaged organs, a shrunken head, learning
disabilities, hyperactivity.
All of alcohols misery is present in abundance
among the village people. Where generations
might once have passed without assault or abuse,
families now face daily torment.
'There is no serious crime without alcohol.
says Alaska State Trooper George Dahl in Bethel.
But there is almost no village without alcohol and
none that escapes the growing epidemic of misery.
Although Natives represent just 16 percent of
Alaska's population and live mostly beyond the
bounds of intensive law enforcement, they ac
count for 34 percent of prison inmates. A Bethel
grand jury's special report in 1986 found child
sexual assault in epidemic proportions.
Although their cultures traditionally have
reared children in a privileged cocoon of affection
and care, neglect now characterizes childhood for
a growing number.
An alcohol counselor from Nome told this story
to a legislative committee investigating local
option alcohol laws:
"1 went into a community...I'm not sure if the
alcohol came in on the plane that I was on or if it
came in on another plane that day. There were
two sober adults for the entire week that I was in
that particular village. That was myself and (a
teacher)...
"From watching the kids from day one to day
five, it was just incredible...Thc children were
from kindergarten up to about seventh grade.
There were maybe nine or 11 children total, in that
school.
"By the end of the second day, two of the
children had started bed-wetting, and their clothes
were not changed through the entire week I was
there...On day three, they started falling asleep in
the classroom, and the teacher just let them
because there were up during the night.
"It was either the last day or that Thursday that
one of the parents came into the schooL.The
parent came in and it was immediate: All 11 kids
went into different kinds of behavior. About three
of them stood up (put their hand J over their ears,
and started rhythmically rocking back and
forth)...two of them hid under tables and chairs..."
Among the dead, those officially labeled
"suicide" represent only a small proportion of the
epidemic. "Accidental deaths" account for far
more destruction. They also bespeak a careless
ness for life born of deep despair.
It is not truly an accident when a drunken
Eskimo freezes to death within sight of his home.
It is not truly an accident when a drunken man
drives his snowmachines into a pair of strolling
women.
It is not truly an accident when a drunken
fisherman falls out of his boat and drowns in the
icy ocean.
Not Natural'
Dog-eared copies of a heartfelt plea about the
problem are making their way through the
villages. The photocopied statement was found
tacked to the laundry door at Alakanuk:
"When someone dies in our village, we say: 'It
was their time to go. We could not stop it.' On the
other hand, some people say that a great number
of deaths in our village are related to alcohol and
drug abuse. Knowing this, we still say, 'It was
their time to go, we could not stop it.'
"We have begun believing that it is natural to
die an alcohol-related death. In our minds, it has
become as natural as a heart attack, a stroke or
dying of old age. We have believed our own lies
and excuses that drinking is a natural cause of
death. ! '
"To stagger, .to fall out of a boat and drown is
not natural. To pass out in the snow and freeze is
not natural. To fight, to knock over a lamp and
burn in a fire is not natural. To abuse and hurt our
loved ones is not natural...
"An alcohol-related death is not a natural way
to die."
Cause or Effect?
But is alcohol the disease or the anesthetic
applied to numb a deep malady? While it is the
constant factor in all the pain in Bush Alaska,
booze is hardly the only ingredient.
To say that having your culture invaded and
engulfed creates despair is self-evident, but it is no
less true for its obviousness. The constant assault
of Western institutions, Western diseases and
Western economies is destroying the fabric of
Native life.
Western traders arrived first to exploit the
bartering economies of Native people and were
shortly followed by missionaries who forcefully
stripped away the supporting foundations of
spirituality. Preachers and teachers washed out
children's mouths with soap when they spoke in
Native language or talked about Native beliefs.
Smallpox and tuberculosis ravaged adults already
assaulted by change.
Those people today's grandparents were a
generation overwhelmed.
Then the government took their children,
sending many to "Indian school" thousands of
miles away. These returned with elevated aspira
tions, diminished prospects for advancement and
little experience in successful family living. They
turned away from elders and toward alcohol.
Today's parents became a generation adrift.
Back in a village economy now tuned ever
more completely to the need for cash electric
bills, snowmachines and fuel oil cash became
harder to get. But television and easier communi
cations.create an appetite among youngsters who
don't fit in the engulfing Western culture or have
a firm heritage to fall back on.
Today's young people are a generation at risk.
"Of the 82 people brought before the
magistrate In 1985, all had been
drinking at the time of committing the
offense with which they were
charged."
'Cast adrift'
"Our culture has been destroyed," say Doug
Modig, a Tsimshian Indian who runs an alcohol
program. "We're fighting for our lives."
Culture is not an item an artifact to be lost or
pawned, or a memory that might be forgotten like
the words to an old, no longer popular song. It is
the anchor that holds each individual to his or her
place in a vast and otherwise uncaring universe.
When the culture is gone, the individual stands
facc-to-face with apocalypse.
At the core of that culture, whether adapted to
the Eskimo, Indian or Aleut ways, is what has
come to be called
"subsistence
lifestyle." In
traditional Native
cultures, it was
not a lifestyle, but
a life. Hunting,
fishing and
gathering were
the economy, the
industry and the
religion.
"I've been
watching the
villages since I
left. They got TV.
The men are not
what they were,"
said Thekia
Hootch, who left
her childhood
home in
Emmonak for a
life in Anchorage.
"Men had dog
teams, they'd go
out in the morn
ing. Everybody
helped each other.
My grandfather
would go hunt
ducks and seals.
"They don't
do that anymore.
They're on
welfare, food
, stamps. There's
snowmachines.
' Even though they
do share, if s not
like it used to
be."
Native men
have been
devalued by the
changes in their
culture. Econo-
A 1
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Upcoming show a response to articles
In 1988, the Anchorage Daily News ran an eight-
part series of articles, titled "A People in Peril,"
describing the bitter social struggles of modern Na
tive Alaskans. From suicide, to fetal alcohol syn
drome, to family violence, the Pulitzer Prize-winning
articles tell a sensitive and poignant story of a people
battling against great odds to regain a way of life
devastated by alcohol addiction.
For ten days, the tragic problems auhcting Alaska s
Native population dominated the attention of Alaska's
nauves and non-nau ves alike, generating widespread
public debate.
Susie Bevins Lncsen, whose Inupiaq name is
Quimmiqsak, was so moved by the series that she
created a four-piece installation that graphically il
lustrated her personal response to the issues examined
in this series.
After the piece was shown at a solo exhibition at
the Anchorage Museum of History and Art in March
and April 1988, Ericsen convinced the Visual Arts
Center of Alaska to invite contemporary Native artists
in Alaska and Washington to respond to the series.
The resulting show "Artists Respond: A People in
Peril" includes 14 wall hangings (both two and
three dimensional), three framed poems, 11 framed
photographs and four sculptures.
Described as a "visual demonstration of the Na
tive spirit transcending adversity," the show will be
featured in the Changing Exhibits Gallery at the
Museum at Warm Springs from January 14 through
March 12, 1994.
In order that prospective visitors from the Warm
Springs community will understand the context and
purpose of the upcoming show, The Museum at
Warm Springs and Spilyay Tymoo obtained permis
sion from the Anchorage Daily News to reprint
individual articles from the prize-winning series.
The series will run in four installments through
January 7, 1994.
The Changing Exhibit Gallery will provide dis
play space for Warm Springs community members
to display their personal responses to the articles.
Suitable responses might include such tributes as
photographs, letters, poetry, artwork, etc., and will
be accepted through December 31.
Inquiries concerning community participation in
the show should be directed to Roxanne Casey,
Exhibits Coordinator, 553-3331.
mist George Rogers of Juneau recalls that even
when he arrived in Alaska in 1945, a study was
being done on male Native status.
"There was a shift. Suddenly, a male Native
was no longer a key person in the survival of his
family. A young mother with kids got (welfare)
payments, older people with Social Security
brought in a tremendous amount of cash. The
male was sort of cast adrift...
"In Barrow, the young men are not interested
(in community college courses). Women are eager
to learn. They are going to be the future breadwin
ners, too. This has had a devastating effect,
particularly among males."
Women with more employable skills migrate to
towns and cities. With fewer eligible mates among
them, village men suffer even worse.
"When we lose our women, we lose our Native
blood, and when we lose our Native blood, we
lose our heart. And we drink," said a young Yupik
man.
With loss of their cultural anchor, many of
Alaska's Native people have chosen simply to opt
out. Suicide is quick from the barrel of a shotgun,
slower from the neck of a plastic whiskey bottle. It
is slowest of all in the lingering misery of
unconnected life at the edges of existence.
"Life doesn't mean what it used to in the old
days," Aleut Agafon Krukoff says simply.
"Some young guys from Bethel were sitting
around talking," said Martha Upicksoun, an
Inupiat women who lives in Anchorage. "There
was this discussion about people who have died.
It was just like a war, only where the people who
have died were victims of suicide or violence.
These guys sitting around taking about them are
saying, 'Well, we made it,' and these guys aren't
even 30 years old.
"I mean, it isn't Beirut or Vietnam, but it's a
battlefield for them. Thaf s how they think of life
and for some of them, it's normal."
The suicide option
The extraordinary has become ordinary in this
generation.
Youngsters and expert psychiatrists agree that
suicide has become a standard option for many in
Bush Alaska. In Alakanuk, students' reasoning
turned easily to self-destruction "I can drop out
of school, I can go away, I can kill myself" said
high school teacher Ralph Baldwin.
The life they chose to depart makes their choice
more understandable. The 15-year-old who today
stands at greatest statistical risk is caught in the
suffocating grip of forces far beyond any
individual's ability to handle.
Probably he lives in an isolated village of about
300. His parents were torn from home at 13; their
parenting skills were never well developed.
I lis village ciders, the centerpiece of most
Native cultures, were themselves overwhelmed by
white assault: traders, missionaries, fuel oil
salesmen. They struggle now with representatives
of cultural change their ancestors never faced:
television repairmen and bill collectors and a
village bootlegger resupplied by air.
There may be a lot of what some villagers call
"closet sobriety in his home town, but chances
are that most of the men in the village drink
alcoholically at least some of the time. Binge
drinking begins when a shipment arrives and ends
only when the last bottle is gone. Beatings, abuse
and accidents are commonplace.
Similar stories
A legislative committee took testimony across
the state.
From Minto, population 153:
"Elders in Minto are afraid to go to bed at night
when they know people in the village have been
drinking. The fear comes from the knowledge that
the elders
would be
unable to
defend
themselves
if a drunk
came into
their house
during the
night. The
elders have
medical
problems
caused by
fear and
depression
arising out
of the
drinking
problems
of others.
"When
there is a
lot of
alcohol in
the village,
children go
to school
tired, fall
asleep
during
class and
cannot pay
attention.
Children of
drinkers go
to school
with dirty
clothes, get
more colds
than other
children
and do not
eat prop
erly. These
children
appear to
be nervous, depressed and lonely. Pregnant
mothers hurt their unborn children through fetal
alcohol syndrome."
From Selawik, population 545:
"Of the 82 people brought before the magistrate
in 1985, all had been drinking at the time of
committing the offense with which they were
charged."
From Toksook Bay, population 333:
"Alcohol can interrupt critically important
subsistence activities. For example, last year two
people were shot and wounded in an alcohol-
related incident during the time when everyone in
the village was a spring fish camp. The families of
those wounded had to leave fish camp before they
had finished getting the necessary amount of
fish."
From Shishmaref, population 393:
"Within families, alcohol precipitates incidents
of domestic violence and family crisis. The use and
abuse of alcohol is threatening the structure of the
extended family. Children and grandchildren are
either excluded or exclude themselves from
extended family activities in an effort to be pro
tected from alcohol abusers."
It is a grim tale, but an undeniable one. Within
the heart of the ancient cultures at risk, a tentative,
first response to the terrible reality is beginning to
stir.
A growing sobriety movement unites activists
from across the state in a new campaign against
alcohol, the deadly catalyst for so much Native
death and suffering. Individual accountability and
community unity are the touchstones of the
movement that draws from traditional Indian
spiritualism, contemporary self-help and Alco
holic Anonymous for its prescription.
As to why Native Americans appear to be
more susceptible to alcohol than non-Natives,
Eddie Frank, a Venetie Village Council member
says,
"We don't have the immunity that
Caucasians have. Before they even
came to North America, alcohol was
part of their life, I guess ever since
alcohol was invented. A hundred
years ago was the first time we were
exposed to alcohol. You know how
when you buy something, a
snowmachine, say, you get direc
tions? When white people gave us
alcohol, they never gave us direc
tions telling us how to use it."
What: Artists Respond: A People in Peril
When: January 1 5 - March 1 1 , 1 994
Where: The Museum at Warm Springs Changing
Exhibits Gallery